


Most incompetent burglar ever!

by stjarna



Series: Writing Prompts / Drabbles / Requests [18]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Drunk!Jemma, F/M, Tumblr Prompt, Writing Prompt, prompt request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stjarna/pseuds/stjarna
Summary: Based on the anonymous Tumblr prompt: If you're still taking prompts, can you make a ficlet about drunk Jemma trying to get home and invading Fitz's place in the middle of the night?UPDATE (07/16/2017: The original fic will get two additional chapters ;) ][Gifted to @MyPretzels, @konstantine, and @lapiccolina who requested a sequel after I had posted the original first part.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyPretzels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPretzels/gifts), [konstantine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/konstantine/gifts), [lapiccolina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapiccolina/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poster by me.

“Most incompetent burglar ever,” Fitz growls grumpily, barely opening his eyes as he drags his bare feet across the floor to the door to investigate the rattling sounds at the lock. He’s holding on tightly to his phone, two digits of the emergency services number already dialed.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” he hears a familiar female voice on the other side say.

Fitz pauses briefly, then puts his phone to sleep, recognizing that whom he is dealing with won’t require a visit from the police.

He puts his phone on the shelf next to the front door and opens it. With a high-pitched “Oops!” Jemma Simmons from 402 stumbles half a step into his flat, her body slightly hunched forward, key and a pair of high-heels dangling by the ankle straps in one hand, the other still holding on to the outside handle of the door.

She straightens up, swaying slightly, and stares back at him. “What are you doing in my flat?” she asks, her speech slightly slurred.

 _Oh fantastic_ , Fitz thinks sarcastically, realizing that she’s full to the brim _._

“This is _my_ flat,” Fitz replies, trying to keep his voice calm and quiet.

Her eyes widen slightly. “I could have _sworn_ I went up to the fourth floor,” she remarks, wrinkling her forehead.

“Nope,” Fitz replies, shaking his head. “Second floor. Maybe you’re seeing double.”

She laughs out loud, pointing at him with the hand holding the key and shoes, while the other one still clutches the door handle for support. “Seeing double,” she snorts. “That’s funny. You’re so funny!”

“Yes, I’m hilarious,” Fitz replies dryly. “And tired,” he adds, staring straight into her eyes, suppressing a yawn, hoping to get his point across.

“Right,” she concurs, tilting her head understandingly. “‘Cause it’s late. And I woke you up. Awww.” She slumps her shoulders. “I’m _so_ sorry. I could have _sworn_ this was my flat.”

Fitz chuckles briefly. _Of course she would be an adorable drunk_.

He takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “How ‘bout I bring you up to your flat before you accidentally try to break into Mrs. Clover’s in 302 or the place of the weird guy with the snake?”

He grabs his keys from the hook next to the door, and steps outside, while her eyes follow him in a daze.

“Can you walk?” he asks concerned.

“Oh, yes, yes, sure,” she smiles, pulling the door shut, more by accident than deliberately if Fitz had to guess. “I made it this far, didn’t I?” she adds, gesturing down the stairs, stumbling half a step backwards.

“Yeah,” Fitz exclaims, reaching for her hand to stop her from tumbling down the stairs. “Let me help you _just_ a little,” he adds, pulling her arm around his neck.

“Oh, you’re so sweet, Fitz,” she says, leaning closer to him, as he tries to guide her up the stairs. “Really! You’re _so_ nice,” she adds, taking another unsteady step.

 _Who would have thought someone so petite could feel heavy like a bloody boulder,_ Fitz thinks.

“I wish we would talk more,” she rambles on, while Fitz drags her step by step. “You know, we don’t talk enough,” she babbles. “You’re _so_ nice… and cute. You’re _so_ cute. … Do you think _I’m_ cute?”

Fitz groans briefly. “I’m not gonna answer that question when there’s like a seventy-five percent chance you won’t remember my answer by the morning,” he replies, getting a tad grumpy from his unexpected late-night fitness exercise and the sensation of his bare feet sticking to god-knows-what on the stairs.

“Yeah, that’s true. I might forget,” Jemma nods in agreement.

“You know, I’ve never pictured you as a party girl,” Fitz remarks, heaving her up one more step.

“Gosh no,” she exclaims. “Nonono. I _never_ drink this much,” she explains, and Fitz is grateful to realize that they’ve made it to the third floor.

_One more to go._

“But I was invited to a hen party,” Jemma continues her story. “Colleague at work. And _just_ as we’re about to order our first round of drinks, this other colleague pulls me aside and—” She stops briefly, almost causing Fitz to lose balance. Nervously he pulls her a bit closer by the waist to keep them both steady.

“I don’t know why she picked _me_ ,” Jemma continues unfazed, and takes another shaky step up the stairs. “I must look trustworthy… and it’s true—”

She stops again, and a quiet “Bloody hell!” escapes Fitz’s lips as he tries to stop them from tumbling back down the stairs.

But once again, Jemma doesn’t notice. “I’m _really_ trustworthy!” she announces and continues her story. “So she tells me that she’s _pregnant_ —” She brings her face closer to his, and Fitz has to close his eyes briefly when he inhales whatever potent concoction she must have drunk during the night.

“And usually she’s _quite_ the party lion,” Jemma moves on. “But she doesn’t want to _tell_ people yet, so she’s asking _me_ to drink any shots they might shove at her… and I don’t know _why_ I agreed.” She shrugs her shoulders, swaying gently back and forth, not realizing they’ve reached her floor and Fitz has stopped moving.

“I’m just nice I guess,” she mumbles quietly. “Always trying to help and… and there were a _lot_ of shots,” she concludes, looking at him with glassy eyes.

“Apparently,” Fitz replies, unable to stop the corners of his mouth from quirking into a little grin.

He gestures at her door. “This is your place.”

It’s a statement, but her mind appears to have heard it as a question.

“Yes, it is,” she confirms, nodding in agreement.

“Key?” Fitz asks, thinking short questions might be easier to comprehend.

“Right,” she replies, smiling widely. “Here!” She brings her hand holding the key in front of him.

He lets go of her waist to grab the key, but keeps her other arm around his shoulders, afraid she might drop to the floor otherwise.

Somewhat awkwardly, he opens the door and guides her inside.

His eyes widen in shock when he sees her flat. “Wow, this place is impeccable.”

“Yes, yes,” she agrees. “I’m _quite_ tidy. Tidy flat is a happy flat!” she states, the importance of her slogan somewhat undermined by her drunkenness.

“Bedroom?” Fitz asks, letting his eyes wander left and right.

“To the right,” she replies.

Fitz tries to take a step forward, but Jemma seems rooted to the spot.

He looks sideways at her and sees her swallowing slowly, eyes wide open.

“Shite,” he exclaims, trying to get her to move forward. “Please don’t throw up yet. Can you try that?”

She nods silently, and takes a shaky step forward, putting more of her weight on Fitz’s shoulder.

He takes her to the bedroom as quickly as possible and makes her sit down on the edge of the mattress.

He squats down to be able to see her face better. She looks white as a sheet, her hand still clutching her shoes.

Gently, Fitz puts his hands on her knees, trying to get her to look at him. “Try to hold it in for just a bit longer,” he says. “Where’s a bucket?”

“Kitchen,” she mumbles quietly, noticeably nauseous. “Under the sink.”

Fitz scrambles to get up, rushes to the kitchen, grabs the bucket, a bottle of water from the fridge and heads back, peeking his head into the bathroom to pull her hand towel from its place next to the sink.

“How we’re doing here?” he asks, darting back into her bedroom.

She shakes her head, her eyes pleading for help.

Fitz barely manages to hold the bucket in front of her face before she starts heaving, mumbling “Oh God,” between each wave of nausea. Her shoes drop to the floor when her hands frantically try to hold the bucket herself.

Fitz sits down next to her on the bed, gently stroking her back. “You got a hair band or something?” he asks, but when another gush of vomit is her reply, he simply decides to hold her hair back with his hands.

“It’s okay,” he says, trying to soothe her.

When the vomiting momentarily stops, Fitz dares ask, “Think that was it?”

“No,” Jemma exclaims weakly, before pulling the bucket closer to her face again.

“I hope she’ll name the damn kid after me,” she mumbles as her voice echoes from inside the bucket.

“Hate to break it to you,” Fitz replies, rubbing one hand over her back. “But there’s a fifty-fifty chance it won’t even be a girl.”

“Ugh,” she groans, lifting her head slightly. “I should stop being nice.”

“Nah, you shouldn’t. Nice is good. I like nice,” Fitz replies, handing her the hand towel.

“You do?” she asks, smiling shyly, taking the towel and wiping off her mouth.

“So, you think the worst is behind?” Fitz asks, not quite willing to answer her question. “I mean vomit-wise. I’m afraid you probably won’t get around a headache from hell tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” she nods weakly. “I think there’s probably nothing left to come back up at this point.”

“Alright,” Fitz says and gets up from the bed, taking the bucket from her, and handing her the bottle of water instead. “How about you take a few small sips and then try to lie down on your side. See how that feels? I’ll clean this up.”

She nods and mumbles a quiet “Thank you.”

* * *

Her head feels as if a sledgehammer is pounding against the inside of her skull when she wakes up. She squints her eyes. Her nightstand lamp is dim, and yet its light feels like daggers digging into her eyeballs. Jemma groans quietly, trying to push herself up to sitting and put together the various memory puzzle pieces from the previous night.

“How you feelin’?” The voice is quiet, yet booming in her ears.

Startled, she looks in the direction it came from and sees him sitting on the floor, his back resting against the wall, a friendly smile playing on his lips.

“Fitz,” she mumbles quietly, her hung-over brain slowly recalling last night’s events.

He gets up and takes a step towards the bed, still smiling. “You’d passed out when I came back from emptying the bucket,” he explains. “Didn’t just wanna leave. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Jemma scoffs briefly, rubbing her throbbing forehead with one hand. “My brain is _definitely_ trying to punish me for my stupidity.”

He chuckles, pulling one corner of his mouth up slightly.

 _He really is a rather adorable specimen,_ Jemma thinks _._

“I found some aspirin in your bathroom cabinet,” Fitz remarks, gesturing at a plastic container on her nightstand, next to an open bottle of water. “Sorry for rummaging through your stuff.”

Jemma smiles shyly, looking at the aspirin container, then back at him. “Thanks,” she says quietly.

“So,” Fitz begins, pressing his fist into the palm of his other hand, before gesturing towards the door with his thumb. “I’m gonna head down to my own place now, but my phone number’s right there,” he adds pointing at a piece of paper on her nightstand. “Maybe you can check in later? Let me know how you’re feeling?”

Jemma shrugs slightly. “You live two storeys down, I could just come down, you know?” she suggests instead.

Fitz laughs quietly. “Be my guest, but I’m not sure you’re gonna feel like walking,” he counters. “But you’ll probably manage a text.”

Jemma nods silently, letting her hand comb through her hair, pulling slightly to counteract her headache.

“Sleep tight, Jemma,” Fitz says quietly, repeating his adorable one-side smile.

“Thanks,” Jemma replies. “And sorry for trying to break into your flat.”

He chuckles. “Quite alright. Honest mistake.”

“Umm,” Jemma replies, wrinkling her forehead, “ _drunken_ mistake,” she corrects him.

Fitz laughs. “Get some rest,” he suggests, and Jemma nods in agreement.

He takes a few steps towards the door, before stopping and turning around to face her again.

“By the way,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Now that the chances of you remembering are a bit higher—” He exhales sharply, and shrugs his shoulders. “I _do_ think you’re cute.” He grins, and Jemma notices the blue of his eyes shimmer mischievously. “ _Very_ cute in fact.”

He turns around and leaves.

Jemma hears the door to her flat close. She sits in her bed like in a trance, her stomach still fluttering from hearing his words, seeing his suggestive smile. She glances at the piece of paper on her nightstand.

 _Gosh_ , she thinks. _This hangover might just be worth it. I think I’ll actually have to thank Daisy for getting knocked up and forcing me to get pissed like a fart._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who decided to continue this fic?
> 
> Thanks, @dilkirani, for being my beta!

“Bobbi!”

Bobbi lifts her head at the sudden distraction and sees Jemma’s head peek through her open office door. The young English woman’s voice had sounded unusually high-pitched and chipper, even for someone with a generally happy demeanor.

Bobbi squints skeptically but keeps her reply inquisitive and welcoming. “Hey, Jemma, what’s up?”

“Nothing.” Jemma waves her off, furrowing her eyebrows and rolling her eyes back, unconvincingly. “I just wanted to thank you for the delightful hen party. I mean… What. A. Night. Right?”

_God, she’s a terrible liar and a horrible actress_.

Bobbi purses her lips, raising one eyebrow ever so slightly. “What do you want, Simmons?”

Jemma’s eyes widen. Bobbi assumes she’s trying to look surprised, when in reality she really looks plain deer-in-headlights.

“Want?” Jemma squeaks. “What on earth makes you think I want anything?”

She chuckles nervously, quite obviously unable to mask the blatant lie.

Bobbi gestures at herself with her thumb. “Three semesters of psychology before I switched majors. Excellent people-reading skills. That’s why I’m Head of Sales and Marketing. Spit it out, Simmons!”

Jemma slumps her shoulders and takes a hesitant step into Bobbi’s office, squinting her eyes apologetically. “Well. I was wondering… I realize it’s terribly short notice… and it would be completely understandable if you… I mean, it’s really quite daft of me to even dare to come here and… but I had hoped that maybe… without any expectations of course… it’s really just a very informal inquiry… and—”

“I’m a good people-reader, Jemma, not actually psychic.” Bobbi rolls her index finger in a forward motion to try and get Jemma to speed things up.

Jemma sighs, pressing her lips into a thin line and bopping her head once in understanding. She draws in a ridiculously slow breath. Bobbi is on the edge of her seat, ready to give her friend one final warning, when the English woman suddenly blurts out, her voice laced with a nervous tremor, “I was wondering if it’s too late to add a plus-one for the wedding?”

Jemma suddenly seems rooted to the spot, her lips pulled into an almost pained wide smile, her body language anxious and tense.

Bobbi’s mouth hangs slightly ajar although she can’t stop the corners of her lips from slowly pulling a little higher. “Plus-one?” she mutters in a mix of curiosity and surprise.

Jemma’s expression changes from excited anticipation to something more along the lines of shock and panic, as she wrinkles her forehead in thought. “Well, of course it’s too late. What a ridiculous question, really. I mean the wedding is in less than a week and the food has been ordered and the seating arrangements have been finalized and you’ve given everyone ample time to RSVP and it’s really quite rude of me to come here and—”

She shakes her head vigorously, waving her hand to the side and scrunching her nose. “Just forget about it.”

Jemma lets out a shaky breath masked as a chuckle and turns around to leave.

“Hey! Hold your horses,” Bobbi calls after her, before her friend can step out of the office.

Slowly, Jemma turns back around and Bobbi can’t help but push her lower lip forward in pity over the apologetic and slightly pathetic look on Jemma’s face.

“Who’s the guy?” Bobbi asks, giving Jemma a knowing look.

Jemma’s gaze falls to the ground, her cheeks reddening with the onset of a blush.

“What guy?” she replies innocently.

“The guy… or gal, I suppose, whom you somehow managed to pick up between us dropping you off at your apartment Saturday night—in a let’s say less-than-sober state— and this morning, Monday morning.”

“No. No.” Jemma mutters, her second ‘no’ significantly lower than the first, her eyes rather unconvincing.

“How did you even manage that?” There’s a bit of admiration in Bobbi’s tone. “I’m fairly certain you were even more drunk than I was, and I spent all of Sunday curled up in bed, moaning indistinctly with my even more hung-over soon-to-be-husband groaning next to me, arguing for hours about who should get up to get more water and aspirin.”

Jemma scrunches her nose, lifting her shoulders in embarrassment, her entire face now glowing in a bright red. “Remember how I told you about my neighbor who lives two storeys down from me?”

“The Scottish guy?” Bobbi asks, wide-eyed. “The one with the brown curly hair, and the fetching scruff, and the piercing blue eyes and the exceptionally well-formed bum… all your words, not mine.”

Jemma wrinkles her forehead, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she manages to reply, somewhat defensively. “Well, I’m quite certain I did not only tell you about his physical attractiveness.”

Bobbi lets out a little laugh, before covering her mouth with her fist, clearing her throat and trying to find her composure without teasing her friend too much. “No, you also told me that you’ve seen him help the old lady on the third floor carry her groceries upstairs, and how he fixed the banister which the superintendent had neglected to repair for three weeks, and how he subscribes to—” She pauses, grimacing in thought, before dismissively waving her hand. “—that science journal that you consider so top-notch, and you told me how he seems just so interesting and you wished you would get a chance to actually talk to him.”

Jemma’s eyes drop to the floor, a shy smile playing on her lips. “That’s the one.”

“So! What happened? Do I have to pull every piece of information out of your nose?”

Slowly, Jemma lifts her head, grinning rather sheepishly. “Well, like you said, I was really quite intoxicated Saturday night and somehow I may have accidentally mistaken the second floor for the fourth and so I may have tried to sort of break into his flat instead of letting myself into my own and—”

“You broke into his apartment?” Bobbi can’t help but laugh out loud.

Jemma’s mouth gapes ajar in protest for a moment. “Attempted to!” she clarifies sternly. “Obviously I wasn’t very successful using my own keys. But I woke him and so he opened the door and found me there, barely able to stand upright, and he… well, he helped me up the stairs to my place and then he… he may have held back my hair while I hurled the contents of my stomach into a bucket—”

Bobbi snorts, very unsuccessfully suppressing another laughing fit.

“—and then when I passed out while he cleaned up my… the aforementioned contents of my stomach, he stayed with me until I woke up again to ensure that I was alright and—”

“Holy shit, he sounds dreamy.”

“—and he asked me to text him the next day to let him know if I was alright, major headache aside of course, and then he showed up at my door later with a pack of bottled water because he had noticed the previous night that I was almost out, and with some frozen waffles, because he said it’s his favorite hangover food, and, well, he didn’t stay for long, because I was obviously not feeling very well, but—” Jemma takes a deep breath and Bobbi’s quite impressed that she’d managed to talk that long without needing to refresh her oxygen supply.

“Well, I’ve been thinking of how I could repay him for his kindness,” Jemma continues, smiling shyly, “and I thought—”

“Repay him for his kindness?” Bobbi interjects, smirking suggestively. “Simmons, no offense, but I think you want to jump his bones.”

Jemma gasps in shock. “Bobbi!”

Bobbi slumps her shoulders, tilting her head slightly to one side. “Come one. You like this guy. You really like this guy, and from the sound of it, he might like you, too.”

A smile flashes across Jemma’s face and the peachy color of blush returns to her cheeks. “Yes, well, he may have admitted that he found me cute.”

“He did?” Bobbi asks, staring at her friend and raising her eyebrows inquisitively.

Jemma shrugs. “I may have asked him in my drunken state whether he found me cute, after confessing that I found him quite… visually pleasing, and at first he didn’t give me an answer fearing that I’d forget his reply due to my drunkenness, but before he left, he—”

“Okay. Stop right there.” Bobbi holds out both hands in front of her chest. “I’m gonna have to meet this guy in person. I don’t care how annoyed my wedding planner is going to be, you’re bringing a plus-one!”

Jemma’s lips pull into an ear-to-ear smile, before she scrunches her nose, shaking her head ever so slightly. “Well, I haven’t asked him yet.”

Bobbi gestures with one hand towards the door. “Well, you got a few days to remedy that, but I suggest you get working on it right away!”

“Thank you.” Jemma exhales in relief, before her eyebrows pull together into a thoughtful frown. “Gosh, do you think it’ll be too much to suggest attending a wedding together as a first date?”

Bobbi tilts her head to one side, shrugging slightly “Probably, but… he already held your hair back while you puked, then admitted that he thought you were cute. I’d say he’s got it bad, so he might not care about the occasion that gets him a date with you.”

Jemma draws in a slow breath. “Alright. I… I’ll stop by his apartment tonight and ask him.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Bobbi grins at her friend one-sidedly.

Jemma lets out a sharp exhale, pressing her lips into a thin line and bopping her head in confirmation, before her expression softens. “My apologies for disrupting your work like that.”

Bobbi can’t help but chuckle quietly. “Anytime, Simmons. Anytime.”

Jemma turns to leave, and seemingly catches sight of someone in the hallway, extending her index finger to try and stop the other person. “Oh. Daisy, do you have a moment? I wanted to thank you—”

Bobbi can’t hear the rest of the conversation, but she smiles as she picks up her phone to call Hunter. “Hey Baby, you think your sister, aka our wedding planner, is gonna kill me if I want to add one more person to the guest list? ‘Cause I kinda promised Jemma. Her Scottish super-crush is involved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter planned (half-drafted) after this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @itsavolcano for being my beta!

Jemma stands in front of his door. 202. Two-O-Two. Two hundred and two. Second floor. Second floor to the left. She’s committed the shape of the metal numbers to memory by now, every corner, every edge. She’s been fixated on it for so long, she could probably determine the CMYK and/or RGB values of its dark-grey color. She’s been staring at the number and his door for a good three minutes now. It’s not so difficult to keep track of time when you can hear your heart rate at approximately 120 bpm hammering loudly in your chest.

_Get yourself together, Simmons. Why on earth would you be so nervous? He’s just a man. He’s already admitted that he likes you. You’ve never had problems asking men out before. Just because this one seems particularly nice and interesting and smart and, yes, quite handsome? It really shouldn’t be so hard._

She growls quietly but angrily at herself, before lifting her hand. She forms a fist, ignores the slight trembling and knocks firmly against the smooth wooden surface in front of her. Then she squeezes her eyes shut, channeling all concentration on the sounds her ears pick up.

Considering that she’d heard his footsteps, Jemma’s embarrassed to flinch when the door opens about thirty seconds later. Her lips pull into a wide smile almost reflexively when she sees him standing in front of her, and her heart rate seems to quicken even more.

He’s wearing jeans and a [navy t-shirt with a white Tyrannosaurus rex stencil and the text “Half of all the T.rexes were girls”](http://www.cafepress.com/jillandjackkids.1623716298) and Jemma fights the urge to grab him, kiss him, and then proceed to immediately discuss sexual dimorphism in dinosaurs with him.

Instead, she continues to smile, while a sudden panic overcomes her that her brain seems completely void of even the most basic protocol for human interaction.

Fitz looks at her in obvious surprise but the corners of his mouth are ticked up.

“Jemma?” he remarks, quietly, and something about the way her name rolls off his tongue, makes her stomach twinge in excitement.

“Fitz,” Jemma manages to stammer. She feels heat rising up her cheeks, and intuitively, reaches up as if she could wipe the blush away.

“Everything okay?” he asks, slightly confused and a hint of concern woven into his tone. He leans slightly forward, peeking briefly into the hallway, his eyes darting left and right before landing back on Jemma.

She’s really quite annoyed with herself at this point, noticing how the simple gaze of his blue eyes makes her knees a bit wobbly, while her lips twitch into a shy smile.

Jemma clears her throat. “Yes. Yes. Everything’s fine. I—No headache today,” she adds, chuckling awkwardly and gesturing at her head.

“That’s good to hear.” His smile grows a little wider, and there’s a charm about the way his eyes sparkle that seems to reach Jemma’s very core. Somehow it re-ignites a spark of confidence in her.

She raises her index finger importantly. “And I managed to talk to Daisy today— that’s my coworker who’s pregnant—and while she didn’t want to commit to naming her child Jemma, should it be a girl, she did agree to consider my middle name.”

“Really?” he asks, grinning rather adorably, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Jemma presses her lips together apologetically, rolling her eyes and shaking her head ever so slightly. “Well, presumably not, but we had a good laugh about the whole thing.”

He laughs out loud. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Jemma can’t help but join in his infectious laughter.

Once he’s regained his composure, Fitz shrugs. “Do you… do you need my help with anything or—?”

“Oh. No,” Jemma exclaims, her eyes widening, as the same nervousness she’d felt before talking to Bobbi overcomes her again, except this time it seems just about ten-fold.

_Get yourself together, Simmons!_

She exhales sharply, her eyes wandering briefly to the ground, before she lifts her head again. “No, I… I came here because… well, I realize it’s very much short notice… and I have absolutely no expectations at all… and if the thought makes you uncomfortable you should of course feel free to—”

She pauses, swallowing hard.

 _Get yourself together, Simmons. You’re rambling again!_ Jemma growls at herself in the safety of her own mind.

“—and it’s really quite a ludicrous, silly idea… and you presumably already have other plans… and it’s quite daft of me to suggest something that’s such a commitment—”

She raises both hands in front of her chest in both defense and as an immediate apology. “I mean, no… not it’s not a commitment, but it could be considered a… and I… well, but nonetheless, and—”

Slowly, Fitz raises his index finger as a subtle interruption, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Umm.”

Jemma sighs, slumping her shoulders in exhaustion over her own inability to straight out ask him what she came here for. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

He shakes his head, one corner of his mouth pulled up into an apologetic smile. “None whatsoever.”

“Ugh.” Jemma lets her head drop back, closing her eyes in defeat, before daring to look back at him, rubbing her forehead vigorously. “Gosh, why is this so hard. I’m usually not like this and—”

She stops when she notices that Fitz is still staring at her, patiently but wide-eyed.

Jemma lets out an exasperated groan and straightens up. “I was wondering… the hen party that I went to which led to the unfortunate… well not unfortunate, but… well, it led to the incident of me attempting to break into your flat and you having to heave my up the stairs to my own apartment to remedy my mistake and to hold back my hair while I—”

“I remember,” he interjects, grinning mischievously, clearly encouraging her to skip a detailed retelling of Saturday night.

Jemma bops her head. “Right. Well. The wedding that this hen party was a predecessor to is this Saturday and I’m allowed a plus-one and I’ve already checked with the bride, and she doesn’t mind to add a guest even on such short notice and—”

“You’re asking me to the wedding?” Fitz’s eyes widen in surprise and Jemma’s mind goes from newfound confidence back to utter panic.

“No,” she exclaims, feeling her eyebrows rise to her hairline, before she lets out a heavy sigh, slumping her shoulders. “I mean, yes. Yes, I am… but, it is very short notice, and I realize that suggesting to attend a wedding together as a first date is a bit unconventional and on second thought, you should probably just forget I asked and maybe we could… we could go for coffee instead, well, tea in my case, or dinner sometime and—”

“Sure.”

Jemma pauses, unsure if she’s heard him correctly. “What now?”

His lips pull into a warm smile. “Sure. I’d love to.”

Jemma swallows, still not entirely certain as to what exactly he’s referring to. “Love to?”

“Go to the wedding with you.”

“Really?” Jemma can’t help it, despite the fact that she knows she must be looking rather awestruck and sheepish at this point, she smiles ear to ear.

“Yeah.” Fitz nods, his blue eyes sparkling with happiness. Suddenly, he clears his throat, his hand shooting to the back of his neck, rubbing it vigorously. “Although! I… I kind of like the idea of squeezing in a coffee, well, tea in my case too, or dinner between now and then so that it wouldn’t be our first date… I mean, if you—”

He removes his hand from the back of his head, gesturing at Jemma instead, seemingly unable to fully finish that sentence.

“Oh.” Jemma’s mouth opens and closes a few times in silence before her brain sends the correct impulses to her vocal chords. “Well. How… how ‘bout dinner Wednesday?”

“Oh.” The excited sparkle that had graced his eyes only moments ago, vanishes for a moment as his expression becomes more somber. “I… I kind of have a standing appointment with my friend, Mack, Wednesday evenings.”

Fitz lifts his shoulders, a weak smile returning to his lips. “Although we usually just play video games, so, I mean, I could probably cancel and—”

Jemma’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “Oh, no, no, I wouldn’t want you to cancel on your friend. It sounds like such a lovely tradition. I wouldn’t want to—”

“Umm,” Fitz interjects, waving his hand, palm-up, side to side in front of his chest. “How… umm… how ‘bout… maybe we could—” He purses his lips, shrugging slightly. “Are you free now?”

“Now?” Jemma’s mouth gapes half open, her eyebrows raised.

Fitz swallows hard and Jemma can’t help but wonder if she’d looked similarly panic-stricken when she’d asked him to the wedding only minutes ago.

“Yeah,” Fitz confirms, a smile playing on his lips. “I… I haven’t eaten yet and… and we could try out that new Indian place that just opened around the corner?”

“Oh.” Jemma’s face lights up. “I’ve been meaning to go there. I love Indian food. And there’s always such a unique atmosphere in Indian restaurants, don’t you think? When I studied at Cambridge, I think I had Indian food once a week. Although the place I went to wasn’t the best quality, but it was charming and fairly cheap, which at the time—”

“You went to Cambridge?” His blue eyes suddenly glisten with curiosity, and Jemma can’t stop her lips from pulling into a proud little grin.

“Yes, I got my first Ph.D. there. In biochemistry.”

He squints, pointing at her questioningly. “Cambridge as in U.K. or Massachusetts?”

Jemma wrinkles her brows, rolling her eyes ever so slightly. “U.K. Naturally. Otherwise, I would have said at Harvard, wouldn’t I?”

He chuckles briefly, seemingly unfazed by the way she’d called out the absurdity of his question. “When did you graduate?”

“2004.”

Fitz scoffs in surprise. “We were there at the same time then.”

The corners of Jemma’s lips tick up immediately. “You went to Cambridge too?”

Fitz nods, his hand reaching up to scratch the skin below his ear. “Yep. Ph.D. in Engineering. Almost went for Biotech.” He pauses, his eyes briefly locking with Jemma’s and his expression becoming incredibly soft. “Now I kinda wish I would have. Bet Biochem and Biotech mingled quite a bit. Might have met you sooner.”

Jemma feels another wave of blush rushing to her cheeks. She tries to press her lips together, subduing her wide smile, to not let him notice quite as obviously how charming she found his comment. Once she’s found her composure, she purses her lips, tilting her head slightly to one side. “And miss the opportunity to have a drunk English woman break into your flat in the middle of the night?”

Fitz chuckles. “Suppose that’s true.” He inhales slowly, clearing his throat shyly, and gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. “So. Umm. I’ll just turn off the TV and grab my jacket and then we can go?”

“Oh.” Jemma suddenly notices her heart beat faster again. She looks down at herself, before meeting his eyes, smiling apologetically. “But I’m not dressed.”

Fitz laughs out loud, before putting on an overly serious expression. “Bloody hell, am I hallucinating clothes, again?”

Jemma holds her stomach, trying not to laugh too hard as her cheeks redden with embarrassment.

“It’s not a fancy place. You look great!” Fitz adds, his warm and friendly eyes gazing at her, before gesturing to his own attire. “Although, maybe… maybe I should change into something less Maastrichtian.”

Jemma chuckles, shaking her head. “No, I found your shirt quite intriguing when I noticed it. Maybe, we could discuss it at dinner? I’d love to hear your thoughts on sexual dimorphism in dinosaurs.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up into a one-sided grin. “You probably have a lot more to say about it than me, but—” He clears his throat, once again gesturing behind himself with his thumb. “Alright. Give me two seconds?”

Jemma bops her head. “Gladly. I’ll wait right here.”

He sighs, a smile adorning his face as he turns around and disappears through a door at the far end of the living room, after grabbing a remote in passing and turning off the TV.

Jemma lets out a quiet squeal, before reaching for her phone in her purse. Her fingers fly over the keyboard and she manages to hit ‘Send’ before Fitz returns, carrying a light jacket in his hand and shoving his wallet into his back pocket.

_Plus-one is a go! Headed for dinner with him now. Details tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted that [T-shirt](http://www.cafepress.com/jillandjackkids.1623716298) for so long!


End file.
